More Than You Can Chew Read online

  “You’re in a corner? Take a look around, Mom, while I try to get this straight. You want me to eat my brains out. And study my brains out. It would solve a lot of problems, wouldn’t it, if I just BLEW my brains out!”

  Mom looks at me hard, deciding how she’s going to win this one. She can’t. Her chin starts to go. Cue the water to the eyes. I can’t watch.

  I didn’t tell that shrink anything. We sat for fifty-five minutes in total silence. Then he checked his watch and said, “Thank you for coming.”

  I look up. The tears have arrived onstage and Mom remembers her lines. “I can’t do this today, Marty. Not today.” And she leaves.

  Well, at least you have a choice, Mom.

  Mom is still here. The car and I are still stuck here. We both need her–if we want to leave. Things aren’t going as planned. If they were, we’d all be halfway home by now, Mom on her second cigarette. Smoke filling the car. Fogging up the space between us.

  I walk to the station to talk to the “guard.”

  “My mom hasn’t left yet,” I say to her. Her manicured nails and penciled eyes stay on the report in front of her. “I know my mom’s still here. Her car’s in the lot…can I see her?” The nurse looks up and stares at me like I just asked to see the queen. “Please?” I don’t like asking for anything and they’re already making me beg. “I need to tell her something.”

  “She’s in a meeting, Marty.”

  Oh, God! She wants a drink. I made her want to drink.

  “Can I go through there and find her?” I say, pointing to the obvious doors.

  The nurse puts her work down. “Why would you go through there?”

  “When they gave me the ‘camp tour,’ they said that was the ALCOHOL AND DRUG UNIT, so I’m assuming the AA meetings are in there–can I go?”

  “You want to go to an AA meeting?” she replies and screws up her face.

  She can’t be a regular. They must have minimum IQ requirements for permanent staff. She has to be a temp from Idiots-are-us.

  “No. I want to talk to my mom.” Here we go round the mulberry bush.

  “I told you, she’s in a meeting.”

  Till early in the morning. “I know. She’s in an AA meeting.”

  “Is that where she told you she was going?”

  “NO! Can’t you people say anything without a question mark?”

  “Yes. And you don’t have to yell. Your mother is in a meeting of a support group for parents dealing with children suffering from eating disorders. I won’t interrupt them, but I can send a message downstairs. Do you still want to see her?”

  She’s not in the room with new drunks. Old drunks. The horror stories.

  “Marty?”

  “Ah, no…forget it.” Not today. She’s safe for today.

  Go back to my room. To sit. And wait. For what? For Mom to rescue me? Too late. She’s gone over to their side. For Dad? Fat chance.

  Already feeling the fight leaving like fluid from an IV bag. Drip…drip. Something leaving. Something entering. But what?

  The door to my room opens. Mom? No. Katherine. She is holding Mrs. Burns by the wrist. Leading her into my room. Mrs. Burns’s fists are clenched into little bony balls–they unroll when Katherine places her on the bed, diagonally from me, and releases her grip. Katherine goes and sits on the other bed, across from mine. Mrs. Burns barely makes a dent on the bed, but Katherine makes her mattress work. The Marilyn Monroe type. Red lips. Big hips. She’s twice the size of Mrs. Burns. And so the welcome wagon arrives with her basket case.

  “I hear you like to punch windows. I don’t like violence,” Katherine says.

  Jesus! What did they do–release an All Points Bulletin on me?

  “Did your mom come?” Katherine changes the subject. Can’t handle silence.

  “Yeah.”

  “She gonna take you home?”

  “How’d you know I asked her?” Maybe this place is bugged.

  Katherine laughs and nods her head. “You think you’re the only one to come here and want to leave?”

  “No.”

  “One girl came in, and after breakfast her parents came and she threw a royal fit till they took her home. A week later they found ‘her highness’ hanging from the electric garage door opener. Neighbors found her ’cause the door was opening and closing. The swinging body kept setting off the sensor. She didn’t kill all of herself. Just her brain.”

  More information than I need.

  “They tell that story to all the parents. How come your dad didn’t come?”

  “Maybe you could interrogate me more later, but right now I’m not into it.”

  Katherine doesn’t move. Doesn’t get the hint.

  “I’d really like to be alone.”

  “In here? Good luck!”

  “Look, I don’t want to be rude, but maybe you could take Mrs. Burns somewhere else and have a little chat with her. Thanks for stopping by.”

  Katherine laughs and puts her hands on her hips. “Is that what you think? We’re just stopping by? We’re your roommates, stupid.”

  Maybe they’ll move me.

  “You can ask to be moved but they’ll just ask you a bunch of questions, not answer any of yours, and convince you to stick it out awhile–might as well get used to it. It’s not so bad, you know.”

  “Neither is being brain-dead.”

  “Don’t let them hear you talk like that!” Katherine’s eyes get wide.

  “Why?”

  “They’ll never leave you alone.”

  “They’re not doing that now.” My turn to laugh.

  Katherine looks at me seriously and says, “Right now they’re giving you a break–letting you settle in. Enjoy it.”

  Yeah, right! I’m settling up to my neck in quicksand while the natives stand around and watch. Only one speaks English. Says, “Figure it out, stop struggling. Think of it as a mud bath.”

  I put my tray down and sit at the end of the table. I want to be alone.

  “I know it’s a lot of food, but you can do it,” Katherine says, and sits beside me.

  “Thanks for your support,” I reply. Now go away.

  Fifth meal today. Dinner. Strawberries for dessert. These ones are washed and have the tops cut off. Not like the last ones I had…

  —

  …Three months ago. When I was still working part-time. Little deli that used to be called Full of Baloney. But no customers came, so the owner, Mrs. Van Daal, changed the name to the Phony Baloney. Served veggie dogs and tofu instead of beef tongue. Took down the salamis and hung up a HELP WANTED sign. She asked me one day when I was ordering my third coffee, “Vhat you sink bout vorking here?”

  “I dunno?”

  “Vood be good. I’m as big as house and you are like…like…klein muisje.”

  “What’s a kline mousha?”

  “Means little mouse.”

  I didn’t answer. I was thinking of us as Daal house and little mouse.

  “You only one can fit behind counter vis me,” she tried again.

  “I dunno?” Too much food. Too much.

  “All da free coffee you vant.”

  I hesitated. I should be tough enough. Don’t want to be weak.

  “Even ven not vorking!”

  “Okay,” I said. And so, between the counter and Mrs. Van Daal, I became the sandwich girl.

  When I was working, she would talk about her customers. She thought all these people who ate health food were nuts. Was always trying to get me to eat the sausages she brought from home for her lunch. She liked things that were so well preserved, you could bury them. Dig them up in two thousand years. Get out your creamy mayonnaise, fresh bread, thick dripping slice of tomato; pile your stash on top and make a sandwich.

  An older guy came in one day. Ordered tuna on pumpernickel. Sounded like he said “pumpherdickel.” I had turned to make his sandwich and he said, “Nice buns.”

  “You want that on a bun?” I wasn’t sure if I’d heard right.


  “I’d rather have you on a bun.” He leaned over the counter and smiled like a snake. Smelled the air with his tongue.

  “Excuse ME?” I said real loud.

  Mrs. Van Daal came barreling around the corner. Almost knocked me down. The cobra-man reared up.

  “Vat you vant?” Mrs. Van Daal spat at him.

  “She was helping –”

  “I help you now. She is bisy. Liefje! Go to da back and get da quackamole. SEE? SHE IS BISY. YOU VANT SOMESING, YOU ASK ME!” And she never took her eyes off him.

  I walked into the refrigerator. Soundproof, cold. Insulated from the world of people enjoying their lunch.

  I found the avocado spread. As I peeled the plastic wrap off the little steel tub, my stomach roared. I could feel the acid drip down into my pit from the stalactites of my ribs. A cave so huge, hollow, and hungry. A black hole. Pulling. My hands gave in. My thumb tucked itself inside my palm. It didn’t want to watch. Participate. Afraid to throw itself into the bowl. Hid just like it did every time the fist drove through window glass. Brave and crazy fingers formed themselves into a ladle. Dove into the mashed avocados. Smashed them into the entrance to the cave. All hell broke loose. The thumb decided if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. The closest things were strawberries and slices of Swiss cheese. Sucked into the vortex too. It all happened in about thirty seconds.

  The compressor came on and made me jump, then the mind walked in like it was late for a meeting. After an explosion. Said, “WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED HERE?” Looked at the reflection of my face on the outside of the metal bowl, now empty. Raped and pillaged.

  The mind was really pissed at what the hands had done. Shocked at the horror, but still taking pictures. Like a crime photographer. The evidence–red, green, and white. Question marks hung like meat hooks on my shoulders, pulling them down. What kind of anorexic was I? I had failed even at that. At any minute someone could have walked in and seen how I flunked the test. Working around food was a test and look what happened. I can’t do anything right. Can’t even not eat right.

  Someone opened the fridge door. The first civilian on the scene. I still don’t know who it was. I rushed past them. Out with the air from the walk-in. I kept going. One hand on my stomach, the other covering my mouth. Universal sign language for I’m going to be sick. Walked very fast past the bathrooms and out the back door. Scraped in behind the Dumpster. Threw up like one of those machines that kids squeeze play dough out of. On the pavement. Looked like a steaming, stinking mess of red blood, green guts, fragments of white bone. Something was pasted to my lip. I peeled off a strawberry leaf. I untied my apron and sanded my face with the starched white cloth. Put it in the Dumpster and covered it with garbage.

  I walked home. The phone was ringing inside. I stayed outside my front door. Keys in my hand. The ringing wouldn’t stop. I went in. Picked up the phone to make it stop crying.

  “Hello.”

  “Leiveling, you…?”

  “Yes, I’m leaving.”

  “No leiveling, my dear, you…you make da most beautiful sandviches.”

  “Can’t come back. I’m sick. Some sort of food allergy.”

  “Dat ugly man who vas here. You don’t sink bout him. Okay?”

  “I have to quit.”

  “I’ll send you your check.”

  “No. Don’t. Please. Keep it.”

  “My little mouse,” I heard her say as I hung up. She was a nice lady. She didn’t understand. Later I told Mom I’d been fired so she’d be so mad she wouldn’t go in there. Mom’s words: “Fired again, Marty? I work hard, pay the bills, and you…”

  I wanted to pay for what I’d done. Somehow I knew the check wasn’t going to cover it.

  —

  “Hey!” Katherine raps on my tray with her fork. Brings me back. “At least eat your strawberries.”

  I’m paying for it now.

  I’M PAYING FOR IT NOW. Screams only I can hear, in a voice locked behind a face like polished stainless steel. No one can ever know what goes on behind those things. My face and refrigerator doors.

  DAY 13

  JUNE 26

  The clock on the dining room wall says we’ve been holding down our lunches for thirty minutes.

  Dennis, who is usually the night nurse, comes back from the nurses’ station across the hall. He looks at his watch. “Okay, girls, you’ve done your time. You have a half hour of free time before group. We’re running it a little early today because we have a new girl in town. Her name is Lily. She’s eight years old. And she’s bunking with Victoria and Elizabeth.”

  The princesses don’t look too thrilled.

  “That’s it for announcements,” Dennis says and sticks his hands in his pockets.

  We file out. Victoria and Elizabeth turn left and head for the walled garden. Katherine and I walk down the hall in the opposite direction. We have to pass Lily’s room to get to ours. Katherine moves like she’s on a mission.

  I grab her arm. “I know you’re really good at orientations, but I got this one, okay?” I say.

  “Sure. Just don’t scare the shit out of her,” Katherine says smiling, pointing her finger in my face. “I’ll be in the TV room with Mrs. Burns if you need backup.” She turns and walks away.

  When I knock on the door, Lily is sitting on the bed next to the window. She doesn’t say anything. It hurts to look at her. I didn’t know little kids could be anorexic. Eight years that looks like eighty. I’m guessing thirty-two pounds. It must have taken thousands of pounds of pressure to compress her into such a small package. I walk across the room and sit beside her.

  Lily’s mother comes in. Doesn’t even acknowledge me. She starts skittering around like a squirrel, putting all of Lily’s stuff away. She clutches a homemade quilt. “You’ll need this, Lil, you know how cold it is in hospitals. I know best!”

  Well, you oversized rodent, if you knew best, Lily wouldn’t be here.

  Her mom shoos us off the bed. I move to Victoria’s bed in the corner and rearrange her stuffed dogs. Lily stands silent in the middle of the room. Her mom starts making the bed and going on about the quilt. Like Lily is going to argue and make her take it back.

  The quilt is all in earth tones. The brown strangers in a white tundra. Patches of rocking horses, dolls, and the alphabet all stitched fish-line-snapping tight. No loose wiggling worm threads. It’s a baby’s blanket. But you would only notice if you looked real close.

  Lily’s mom finishes the bed, goes to Lily, and holds her by the shoulders. “Do what they tell you and everything will be fine,” she says to the top of her daughter’s head. She kisses it. “Lily’s a very good girl,” she says to me, and leaves.

  Too good, I would bet.

  Lily moves back to the bed. Sits on the edge. I join her and pick up a little bear that is wearing a yellow nightgown with the name BLOSSOM stitched onto it. I hold the bear by its back and sit it on my thigh. “Hi, Blossom, I’m Marty, how’re you doing?” I bend the bear’s head forward so she’s staring at the furry paws in her lap. “It sucks being here, doesn’t it, Blossom?” I nod the bear’s head yes. “I know, but not all of the zookeepers are cranky, the water’s pretty good, and you can have all the honey you want.” I slowly raise the bear’s head up so it’s looking at me. “My room is right next door. Down the hall is the dining room. Every Sunday you circle what you want to eat for the whole week on your ‘menu’ card. Don’t get the soup. I think it’s made from dirty dishwater.” I make the bear cover its mouth with its paws. “There’s a TV room with cable and you can watch cartoons.” Blossom raises her arms over her head. “Want to go for a tour and meet the other animals?” I lean the bear forward and make it look at Lily. “Do you want your friend Lily to come with us?” I throw the bear up and make it do a crazy dance in front of Lily’s face. Lily smiles.

  I feel guilty. Lily follows me like a little cub as I take Blossom for a ride on my shoulders around the unit. And now I’m leading them right into a trap. Group therapy.r />
  I walk into the GT room, but Lily hesitates at the door. She is smarter than the average bear.

  “Come on in, Lily. I’m Rhonda, the group therapy leader. You can sit beside me for today,” she says from across the room and pats the foldout chair next to her.

  I put Blossom down on the seat and go sit on the other side of Rhonda because it’s the only chair left. Lily walks around the circle of calm cool characters, slips through the small space between the designated chair and Katherine’s, picks up the bear, and sits. Lily looks like a dwarf next to Rhonda.

  Rhonda stretches out her long legs, slouches down in her chair, and crosses her arms. She tucks thick waves of her brown hair behind her ear. “Welcome to the group, Lily. We’ll do the introductions in a minute, but let me tell you how this works. We do lots of different things in this room that give you a chance to express yourself, such as art and writing. But when we sit in a circle and talk, it’s called group therapy. You can talk about your family, or you, or what’s going on in the unit. There are only three rules: you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to; when responding to someone in group, we try to be kind and not critical; and what is said in here stays in here.”

  Except when it goes in our charts. So nobody actually says anything. If you keep your mouth shut, you can’t hurt anybody. Words are like bullets…once they hit the target, you can’t put them, back in the gun.

  Lily looks like she is sitting in front of a firing squad, Blossom gripped in her lap.

  “Okay, guys. Why don’t we start the introductions to Lily’s left with Katherine,” Rhonda says, as she claps her hands together.

  Lily startles, but her eyes never leave the floor.